I know a book is of special value when I reach the 700th page, see behind my right thumb a mere slither of sheets left to devour and react by slowing down my reading pace to that of a koala so overcome with a particularly potent batch of Eucalyptus that movement of any kind, conscious effort of any kind, becomes close to impossible...a sadness of sorts appears on my emotional horizon, a sense of anticipated grief rooted in the certainty that soon enough, I am going to lose this new friend I have made, and began to want to be close to always...

Edmond Dantes is a character I find myself relating towards in a potentially arrogant as much as demented manner, a creature I aspire towards curbing my righteous zeal to mirror, in too many ways to mention without turning this review into a novella. Suffice to say, now the book has been finally, painfully closed, I feel not enlightened, but undoubtedly invigorated and at the same time, somewhat morose...to accept begrudgingly, that such a supreme example of what Strange Fortune and Humanity as a species can combined produce, is merely the figment of a wonderful frenchman's imagination...Actual in a realm perhaps Descartes could draw me closer towards, or at least far away from, as much as he could draw me away from everyone and everything, to ponder, that The Count is every bit as alive and possible on Earth as my family and brethren and hellhound and beloved Savage Queen who remains, after many moons now, married to the start and end of every minor and most meaningful thought and feeling which washes over me...

Most books which I rate highly are character driven rather than narrative driven. Which isn't to suggest that the plots which pull the start, middle and finish together are lacking in...whatever makes them valuable. It just means that personally speaking, and how else can I speak/write/express myself, if this series of word passages are to be of any value to myself let alone any others...so yes, as I was saying, personally speaking, I need to feel close to, to believe in, the characters lined in words. The narrative ALWAYS plays second fiddle. For I would much rather read a few hundred pages about a character I like, or hate, or love, or who conjures inspiration, planted upon a narrative which seems to mean very little, other than as a vehicle, a platform, to deliver this character...I would prefer that, to a narrative, which is surely always merely a framework, a stage, which takes precedence over the actors who set foot upon that stage...The magnificent thing, well one of many magnificent things about The Count Of Monte Cristo, is that Alexandre Dumas has managed to bring to life in words, hundreds of thousands of words, not only many perfectly rendered and believable characters, but also one of the finest stages I have ever come across, in any book...

I have a warped sense of allegiance to the tome and its magical contents and its author, which dictates that I simply cannot supply an objective synopsis. For this text deserves the attention of anyone who has fully functioning eyes, a heart capable of romance, and a spirit of adventure...But admittedly, turning my eyes back across these lines, leads to an uncomfortable sensation creeping up my spine, of PEOPLE NEED MORE THAN MY RANTING TO BE PERSUADED TO DELVE INTO SUCH A LARGE SHAPE OF PAPER AND OLD STORY...so...It has Romance, Betrayal, Respect, Politics, Love, and above all else, Spirit and Heart and Honesty in abundance...I challenge anyone to read this book, in its entirety, and not emerge from the final page, sad only at the loneliness which must surely come from leaving the likes of Edmond and Maximillian to the ink on the page, and our desires to find their kin in our own lives... This book has not changed my life, but it most certainly has pushed itself, upon our first collision, into the top five rankings of my favourite pieces of Art of all time.

“Those born to wealth, and who have the means of gratifying every wish, know not what is the real happiness of life, just as those who have been tossed on the stormy waters of the ocean on a few frail planks can alone realize the blessings of fair weather.”